by Iris Chacon
Neither man answered, though their chins dropped like little boys caught smoking in the bathroom.
“Dan Kavanaugh!” Mitchell turned to the big man, who was still standing, while Jean lowered himself onto the couch. “How could you? He’s drugged out of his mind, probably, but you! You should be smarter than to try something like this!”
Neither man was foolish enough to answer.
“Well, you’re here now,” she said. “Might as well sit down.”
Kavanaugh sat in an upholstered chair near the door.
Mitchell moved to the chair directly in front of the couch, separated by a narrow coffee table. She clamped her hands together in her lap; it was the only way to keep them still. She looked to be sure Jean had settled properly on the sofa, then she dropped her gaze to her hands.
Jean looked at her for a long ten-count. Her bruises were fading to yellow and brown now, and in her sweatpants and tee shirt, with no makeup and her hair loose around her shoulders and down her back, he thought she looked ten years younger. Even though he could see the evidence of sleep deprivation, and she had obviously lost weight, Jean thought she was more beautiful than anyone he had ever seen.
Her bare feet made her seem, somehow, more vulnerable. He wanted to take her onto his lap and hold her against his chest, until she relaxed against him and he knew she felt safe and cared for. Her stiff spine told him quite plainly that she would not accept any of that. So, he bundled up his protective instincts and stuffed them away, for now.
“How are you feeling?” he said at last. “Were you hurt the other night, or when you were with those people at the mansion?”
“I’m fine.”
“I have missed you,” he said, working hard to keep it blame-free, warm, winsome.
“How’s Carinne?”
“Who?”
“Carinne? Carinne Averell, the girl of your dreams? The girl you were kissing the last time I saw you?”
Dan jumped up and headed for the door. “I think I’ll just wait in the car.” He let himself out and escaped to the parking lot.
Mitchell stopped talking and pressed her lips tightly together. If she allowed anything else to come out of her mouth, at that moment, she was afraid it would be torrents of extremely unpleasant rhetoric.
Jean sat with his mouth open, shaking his head slowly. “I know the girl you mean. I had forgotten her name, I guess, with everything else going on.” He watched Mitchell, who seemed to be using all her strength to stay still and say nothing. “But, Michel, I do not remember kissing that girl. I do not remember kissing anybody. When did this happen?”
“As if you didn’t know!” she snapped.
“Let us pretend I do not know,” he coaxed. “Tell me.”
“You were fighting that, that Rico person, and he said I was your ‘woman,’ and I stepped into the room and said I was NOT your ‘woman,’ and you knocked him out, and we put you on the bed, and I went to get some ice, and you KISSED her!” She pulled in a long breath.
“Is that all?”
“I don’t know! Carinne said she would go in the ambulance with you, and that’s when I left.”
He watched her, certain she would weep at any second, but she was doing a fantastic job of keeping herself together. This was the Iron Maiden the orderlies talked about when they spoke of Doctor Oberon, behind her back. But, he knew this was also his Michel. And, she didn’t want to be his Michel at the moment.
“Michel, I believe I was unconscious.” He spoke as calmly and soothingly as possible.
“I knew you would say that,” she barked. “Very convenient, isn’t it.”
He waited to see if she would begin to calm down. When her breathing seemed to slow, the muscles in her face and shoulders seemed to loosen slightly, and her hands stopped clawing desperately at one another, he spoke.
“I knew you were upset about something. And, I do not want to argue or fight, I only want to understand. Because you think I kissed that girl, you do not want to be my doctor, anymore? And, you do not want me to live here with you? And, you do not want to be friends, anymore? Is that the reason?”
She had been looking at him during her angry tirade about Carinne, but she looked down at her lap again now. “It’s one of the reasons.”
“Merci. Thank you for that,” he said. Then he continued, using the tone one uses when gentling a wild animal. “Now, before I must go, can you please tell me the other reasons?” He leaned his head, trying to catch her downcast eyes. “Please. And then, I will go.”
Mitchell moved her hands to the sides of her chair, where she seemed to hold on securely, as if the chair were going to rock and yaw, like a rowboat. “I don’t think I should be your doctor because we have become ... we have a ... we had ... a personal relationship.”
She waited until he leaned back against the sofa and nodded his understanding.
He waited for more.
“I don’t think you should live here any more because you are a grown man, and you need to be independent again, like you were before ... before last year. There’s a danger I could enable you or make you dependent on me—even without realizing it. Plus, if you don’t live here, then I won’t know when you’re seeing ... when you’re dating. And, I shouldn’t know about that. That’s none of my business.”
She waited, expecting some reaction, whether denial or agreement.
He merely waited, with a friendly neutrality on his face.
“And, I don’t think we should be ... friends ... I mean, close friends, because maybe one of us might want to be more than just friends, and I’m ... uh, well ... let’s face it, I’m several years older than you. It just wouldn’t be right.”
“Hmm,” he said, noncommittally. “I do not say you are right, and I do not say you are wrong, I am just curious. Do you know how old am I?”
She shook her head, no.
“I received papers from Dubreau’s boss, Captain Crockett—“
“Boone,” she corrected.
“Ah, merci,” he said. “Davey Crockett, Daniel Boone, I get them mixed up. Anyway, Captain Boone gave me Dubreau’s papers. Michel, I am thirty-one.”
“Oh.”
“Oui. Did you think I was younger? Just curious. Did you?”
“Um, yes. I guess I ... assumed ... you were younger.” She said, eyes on her lap.
He took in a long, slow breath and then let it out, as if preparing for a yoga pose.
“D’accord,” he said. “Now, I am going to tell you something you need to know, and then, I will return to the hospital. And, I hope you will think about these things, and that you will—perhaps tomorrow, perhaps another day soon—also return to the hospital. I am not the only person who needs a good doctor, Michel. Do not be my doctor, if you do not want to, but there is no need to punish everyone else. People miss you. They need you.”
She nodded. She looked up and faced him, with a good deal less anger and trepidation than she had felt earlier.
“Michel, I do not believe I kissed that woman, but I truly do not remember what happened. Perhaps, she kissed me. I only know that I have no relationship with that woman, and I have no feelings for her.”
He waited until Mitchell nodded, indicating she had heard him. She didn’t indicate whether she believed him.
“Bon,” he said. “Next, you do not think you should be my doctor, if we have a personal relationship. I agree. If I have to choose, I choose to be your friend—that’s a personal relationship. So, then, you will not be my doctor. Okay?”
She looked surprised, but she nodded.
“You think I should be an independent person. I agree. A man needs to be able to care for himself, and then for his family. I will start by living again on Dubreau’s boat. Where are my belongings, by the way?” He looked around the room as if he might spot his things piled in a corner.
“In storage, until you get ready to leave the hospital,” she said. “When you have set a date, you just call the movers and they bring it all to you. I�
��ve paid for six months. I’ll give you all the information.”
“Ah,” he said. “Trés bien. Very smart. And very generous. Merci.”
He thought for a moment, ticking his thoughts off on his fingers as if making sure he had covered all points.
“That brings us to my dating, and your ancient, terribly, horribly old age.” He winked at her.
Almost against her will, she smiled for the first time.
“I have no plans for dating, so that is not an issue,” he waved one hand as if to dismiss that idea and send it far away.
“As for the age, well, I am getting older every day. Also, I do not know your age, and I do not want to know. And, I am not afraid of pumas. So, that is not an issue.”
“I don’t think—” she began.
“Mademoiselle, please do not think until I have left the building,” he said, hauling himself up from the couch.
She retrieved his crutches from the floor beneath the coffee table and helped him to the door.
“Be careful sneaking back in,” she said.
“Merci. I will. Bon nuit, Michel.”
She closed the door behind him, and he was gone.
She felt different somehow. The future was still a mystery, but it didn’t seem as bleak as it had just an hour ago. Mitchell had a lot to think about. She decided to start immediately.
CHAPTER 25 – READJUSTMENT
By the time the 7 a.m. to 3 p.m. shift arrived at the hospital the next morning—the fifth day after the rescue raid—a new legend about the exploits of Jean Deaux was circulating throughout the corridors and nursing stations. Reactions to Jean’s secret outing the night before were mixed.
Hector and his camp shared high-fives and thumbs-ups and, if possible, would have carried Jean through the hallways on their shoulders. These romantic thinkers (made up of many staff members, and even some patients and their families) celebrated Jean’s successful escape, which they surmised was attempted in order to woo his lady love.
On the other hand, Nurse Erskine and her compatriots (employees and non-employees from all levels of hospital society) were more pragmatic and authoritarian in their outlook. In their opinion, Jean had been irresponsible, had flouted hospital rules—endangering his own health in the process—and deserved censure, not praise, for his ill-conceived adventure.
A few people, Doctor Goldberg among them, refused to take sides. When visiting Jean’s room on morning rounds, Doctor Goldberg took the time to speak privately with Jean and to learn all the details from him about his conversation with Mitchell. Satisfied that progress had been made, and that Jean had spoken to Mitchell in a manner of which Goldberg approved, the doctor patted Jean on his (uninjured) shoulder and said, “Now, you don’t disobey any more orders. Take your meds, and work hard on your therapy, and we’ll get you out of here as soon as we can. Then you can work on phase two of the plan.”
Jean received his daily visit from Mandy Stone just after lunchtime. He told her the story of his nocturnal Coconut Grove expedition. She, too, of course, wanted all the details of Jean’s negotiations with Mitchell. She joined Hector’s pro-escape faction, though she did not perform high-fives or belly-bumps in the corridor, as some were wont to do.
No one saw, or heard from, Doctor Mitchell Oberon that day.
On the sixth day after the rescue raid, the hospital grapevine carried juicy news indeed: Doctor Oberon had returned. She had been seen conducting rounds alongside Doctor Goldberg, and it appeared that he was briefing her on “his” cases, so that she could take over those responsibilities (again).
When Doctors Oberon and Goldberg visited room 2114 to discuss the condition of Yves Dubreau, the patient was absent. Goldberg joked that they were “pretty sure he’s in physical therapy at this hour, but it’s always possible he’s escaped again.”
“Does he know you’re coming back to work?” Goldberg asked her.
“I have not discussed my plans with Mister Dubreau,” she answered, with careful correctness. “However, if he has any problem with my taking over his care, I’m sure he’ll tell me tomorrow, and administration can assign someone else.” She smiled, closed the chart they had been discussing, and turned toward the door. “Moving right along?”
“Sure,” said Goldberg, and accompanied her to the next patient on their schedule.
When Mandy Stone came by in the afternoon for her daily visit, Jean was tired and sore from working hard at his physical therapy session earlier. She kept her visit short, but she asked him one pointed question before departing: “Have you heard anything from Carinne, dear?”
Jean looked surprised. “Non, Maman. Should I have?”
Mandy patted his hand. “Not at all. I was only curious. I expect she’s very busy learning to run her father’s business these days.”
Jean nodded.
“Does it bother you?”
“Does what bother me?”
“That Carinne doesn’t call you or visit you, after you sacrificed so much to help her,” Mandy said.
“I sacrificed nothing for her, Maman. I do not know Mademoiselle Carinne. Anything I did was for Michel. Only for Michel.”
Mandy smiled at him with motherly pride and affection. “That’s what I thought,” she said. “Au revoir, mon cher.”
“Au revoir, Maman.”
After Mandy left, Jean slept for the rest of the afternoon. He did not dream of Carinne Averell.
On the seventh day after the rescue raid, Jean was sitting up in bed, working in his sketchpad, when the door to room 2114 opened and a familiar lady doctor strode in, carrying Yves Dubreau’s medical chart.
Jean’s eyes lit up from within, and a smile transformed his face into a representation of pure joy. “Bonjour!”
The doctor’s smile was eighty per cent as bright, but she kept her enthusiasm tightly controlled—aiming for professionalism over fraternization. “Good morning, Mister Dubreau,” she said, stepping forward and offering her hand for him to shake. “I’m sure you remember me, I’m Doctor Oberon.”
“Ah,” he said, recognizing her official bedside manner. “Of course, Doctor Oberon. I could never forget you.” After releasing her hand, he gestured toward the chart. “As you see, my legal name is Yves Dubreau. But my friends call me Jean.”
“If you have no objection, Mister Dubreau, I will be taking your case from Doctor Goldberg. Of course, you are not obligated to accept this change if you—”
“I accept.... Doctor Oberon.... If you wish to be my doctor, I accept. Please.”
“Thank you,” she said, and her smile seemed suddenly less rigid, softer. “Do you promise to behave? No skipping meds, no missing therapy sessions, ... no gallivanting around town in the middle of the night?” She winked.
“I promise,” he said, and winked back at her.
“Let’s see what we have here, then,” Mitchell said. She laid aside the electronic-tablet chart and manipulated his left foot and ankle—watching him for signs of discomfort in the knee. Then, she retrieved the chart and scrolled through the nursing notes for the past twenty-four hours. She asked about his pain levels, tapped notes into his chart, and scheduled him for a knee x-ray and MRI later in the day. “We’ll get a look at what’s going on under that cast,” she said.
They exchanged but few words, and none of those were personal. When Mitchell had completed her notes, she shook his hand, they both said it was a pleasure to meet again, and she left.
Jean’s megawatt smile remained. He had told her that if he must choose between having her as a doctor and having her as a friend, he would choose the friend. By becoming his doctor, she was telling him that he would not have to choose. By keeping her visits strictly professional, she was telling him that friendship would have to wait until he was discharged from the hospital.
He would prefer to have both doctor and friend immediately. However, it was all right to have doctor and friend sequentially, if she preferred it. It was a compromise he could accept. Until time to implement phase two
of the plan.
For two weeks, Jean was a model patient, especially during those few minutes every morning when his lady doctor came to see him during morning rounds. Their visits were strictly professional, doctor/patient consultations, remarkable only because of the ridiculous grin on his face and the peculiar light in her eyes whenever they met.
At the end of two weeks, Doctor Oberon discharged Yves (“Jean”) Dubreau with a sturdy knee brace instead of the cast, and with orders for two additional months of outpatient physical therapy to rehabilitate his left knee and shoulder.
Dubreau returned to his Do Bee 2, with the help of Hector Velez and Dan Kavanaugh. They made certain he had food in his galley and a cellphone for staying in touch.
Mandy Stone had registered him with MediTransit, so that he could call and make appointments for transportation to wherever he needed to go. It would be weeks before Jean was allowed to drive, per doctor’s orders.
Jean had no vehicle of his own as yet. Still, one of his prized possessions was Yves Dubreau’s driver’s license. (Hector promised to teach him how to drive.)
After the first month of physical therapy, Dubreau could walk to the Barnacle Gallery from the marina where his boat was moored. He reserved MediTransit only for therapy appointments across town.
He spent several hours each day painting in the upstairs studio the gallery owner happily provided for him. The movers delivered Jean Deaux’s easels, canvases, and paints to the gallery-studio, as they had previously delivered his clothing and (very few) personal items to the marina.
The demand for paintings by Jean Deaux remained high, earning steady commissions for the gallery and an adequate living for Dubreau, who, despite his restored identity, continued to sign paintings as he always had. Nobody particularly wanted a painting by some unknown hack called Yves Dubreau.